


Slow Parade

by writerdot



Series: Silver Linings [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Season 8, Sick Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerdot/pseuds/writerdot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You find you can't say 'no' anymore."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Parade

 

You try to take it one day at a time, make it last, because it feels too much like it’s going to be the end, far too soon.

You savor every minute, every smile, every sarcastic retort and barb at your expense because you just aren’t sure how much longer you’re going to be able to be in the presence of a man that has been with you for as long as you can remember.

Even the times when he wasn’t there, even through the jail-time, the ex-wives, the broken limbs and the constant pain, he was there, a voice in your head and an image in your memory.

You find that you can’t say 'no' anymore. In fact most of the time, saying yes now is very nearly effortless. When he says that he can’t drive the bike anymore, you immediately scout car dealerships for something reliable and comfortable. When he says that traveling in the car makes everything hurt worse, you decide that you're done with the crappy motels that have been a trend for so long. Frugal living for the last five months has left you two with plenty of money, so you find a good, nice, hotel with all the needed amenities.

Everything to make him comfortable.

And on a bright, hot morning, when he looks at you under a clouded gaze that you hope won’t take as long to clear as it had yesterday, and asks to go out to dinner, you go to the reception desk to find the best restaurant in this little town to make reservations.

You don’t protest as you help him dress. You don’t say anything as you guide him to the car. You don’t offer a word as he grabs your arm as you make your way into the dark, crowded restaurant.

Instead, you’re watching Wilson pick at his own food, slim, bony fingers wrapped tightly around the fork as it destroys a potato mountain. You haven’t even taken a bite of your own steak because of the weight of what feels like a pile of hot rocks sitting in your stomach are making the thought of ingesting anything unpalatable.

But when he looks at you, smiles softly, and asks “how is it,” you snap yourself out of your Wilson-watch, cut a piece and bite it off your fork, chewing what feels like rubber cement and swallowing.

“Good,” You answer brightly. “Want some?”

You can tell Wilson isn’t buying the forced cheerfulness for a second, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he shakes his head and spears some green beans with his fork.

You’re sure this is his last goodbye. You know it is, but you can’t help but continue to watch him, grateful for every swallow of food he does manage to get down despite the almost constant nausea, letting the dark light of the restaurant lure you into believing that the man sitting across from you, your best friend, isn’t sitting there, thin and gaunt, and dying in front of your eyes.

There’s a sudden, unmistakable cough. You almost see it before you hear it. He stops eating and goes stiff, gripping the arms of his chair, his bony fingers white with the tightness of his hold. You drop your fork to the floor as you sit up straight in your chair and grab your cane to be ready to spring into action.

“Wilson,” You say, cautiously, sharply, because maybe he’s just taken a bite of something too fast and maybe…

You never finish that thought, that little piece of hope. You’re on the edge of your seat as he opens his eyes and looks at you… then slips sideways out of his chair and heavily onto the floor.

When you look back on it, you can’t even remember how you came to be kneeling painfully next to him, watching as he gasps for breath and tries to talk.

The other people in the restaurant are already calling an ambulance, so you tune them out, sure help is coming. You focus completely, entirely, on him as you grab the wrist attached to the hand that has grasped your blazer in a fit of desperation. You frown, feeling an odd sensation on Wilson's skin, so you look down to see the broken face of Wilson's watch, small, miniscule amounts of broken glass falling to Wilson's jacket. You want to tear the offending thing off and throw it away, destroy it, because it feels horribly like Wilson's just recorded his own time of death.

You don't though, you turn back to him, look at his white face and blue lips, and you notice that the position you're in is a mimicry of that night, on your couch, in what feels like a lifetime ago. He was dying then, too, and you’re sure that he’s going to beg for you to let him go, to leave him be because…

_“Not the hospital, House, you can’t do that to me…please…”_

You hear those words in your head…but it’s not what you hear _right now_. You lean down, grip Wilson’s fingers tighter and beg him to repeat what he said.

“Not…yet,” Wilson gasps, coughs again, his breath hot in your ear. “Puh…please, ‘ouse. Not...not yet…”

You lean back and look at him, hang on tighter, as the paramedics rush in around you and try to push you away. You let them because you’ve no choice. You can’t help him with medicine and they can. Wilson’s coughing as EMTs strap an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose as he nods at you as though in confirmation and you allow yourself a small exhale. You identify it fairly easily as relief.

You realize, violently and with utter certainty, that if he hadn’t said that, if he hadn’t just told you that he wanted to live, that he wanted you to help him fight for his life, you would have had to do something you haven’t done in five months.

You would have had to say no.

End


End file.
